


Audiolog

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Forced Masturbation, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slurs, Star Trek: Into Darkness, Stripping, Submission, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harrison hacks Jim’s apartment and bargains for a show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Audiolog

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

By the time Jim gets back to his apartment, he’s only marginally better. Only barely thinking. He’s still panting like he’s just run a marathon, heart beating too fast in his chest and face occasionally seizing up in pain—his injuries are minor, but the emotional agony is more than he knows how to handle. He was front seat for a tragedy, and that tragedy claimed the closest thing to a father he’s ever had. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do after this. It feels like his whole life’s had a giant hole ripped into it, and nothing will fill that gap no matter how hard he tries. 

He doesn’t even know what to try. He should... should eat something, maybe. Lie down. It’s three a.m.—there were depositions and questions, reports that seemed to take small eternities and half-assed medical exams. Spock hovered by him for more than half of it, giving all the same details and just generally supporting Jim, not physically, but emotionally keeping him from just collapsing. He doesn’t know how Spock does it. Holds it all together. He runs a shaky hand through his hair while he kicks off his shoes. His apartment door makes a click behind him—the lock he didn’t trigger. 

Jim half-turns. Licks his lips. He’s still not... not fully functioning. Maybe he heard things. He pulls at his jacket, wandering through the darkness, not wanting the lights. The floor’s a mess, but he knows where all his shit is. He only trips once on the way to the bedroom on a PADD that breaks under his foot. He swears, but can’t really care. Not right now. He’s tugging at his grey jacket, just wanting it off. It’s got too-familiar blood on it. He can smell the wreckage on himself. He should take a shower. 

The door slides shut behind him in the bedroom while Jim’s halfway through his sleeves. His head jerks around—he didn’t shut the door. It cuts off the light of the living room window and throws him into sheer darkness—the blinds are down on his bedroom’s window. Blood pounding in his ears and on his toes, still on alert from the rush of earlier, he barks, “Lights!”

Silence. Darkness. Biting his cheek and easing his jacket back up his shoulders, Jim tries more cautiously, “Computer, lights on.” But nothing happens. 

_“Computer,”_ a deep, sensual voice purrs through his apartment, echoing off the walls like it’s lilting in through speakers, _“Lights, sixty percent.”_ The voice seems to smirk as the computer obeys, and Jim’s filtered into a golden glow. His head’s instantly swiveling around, but nothing looks out of place. He marches over to the bathroom—the door’s locked shut. Back to the bedroom door: same thing. _“I think you’ll find I’ve quite secured the place.”_

“Who are you?!” Jim shouts, so not in the mood for this. He’s still pacing around his quarters, looking in places that don’t even make sense, then trying to pry at the metallic, sealed blinds. Maybe the proper question should be ‘where are you?’ as the man clearly isn’t in Jim’s apartment.

_“Now, Starfleet’s made that a bit of a difficult question... do you want my real name, or the one your star admiral saw fit to bestow me?”_

_Admiral_. Jim’s not in the mood for games. He stops abruptly in his tracks, halfway around his bed. He’s panting even harder now, brain on overtime. Someone’s obviously targeting Starfleet. That doesn’t mean that someone is calling him. But he doesn’t know who else would.

Confirming all his suspicions, the voice purrs, _“I saw you watching me tonight, and I saw you stop me before I was finished—”_

“Harrison!” Jim snarls, cutting the voice off. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. John Harrison chuckles like this is some sort of grand joke that Jim’s not in on, and then he smoothly continues talking as though Jim isn’t boiling over.

 _“But I didn’t hack your apartment and snuggly lock you in simply to scold you. No, I wouldn’t need the cameras for that.”_ Cameras? Jim’s head’s swiveling again, knowing full well that cameras can be made too small for his eye to pick up, but that doesn’t stop him from looking. _“I’ve actually gone through all this effort to let you in on a little secret. You see, Mr. Kirk, I’ve already gone through your records, and you seem to have a bit of a... moral vendetta, shall we say? ...I’m in a position where I could use a man with a starship and a moral compass.”_

“Not that you’d know anything about morality,” Jim seethes to the room at large. “Or do you really think I’m going to hop on board after you murdered innocent people and my friend, Admiral Pike?” He’s snarling by the end of it. 

There’s a general pause before Harrison, a little more quiet than Jim expected, sighs, _“...Yes. That was... an unfortunate side effect of what I had to do. ...But if it soothes your conscience at all, know that it was far from an unprovoked attack. I had my reasons.”_

“There are no reasons that could justify what you did.”

_“I’m not trying to gain your approval, Captain. I’m simply telling you what you didn’t know. Now, if you want to truly understand why I did what I did... I suggest you stop provoking me and begin to play along.”_

Jim scoffs. He’s too exhausted for this. He wonders vaguely if he can just keep Harrison talking long enough for someone to notice he’s missing and come to the rescue. ...But then, waiting around for rescue isn’t really Jim’s style. It takes a minute for him to muster up the confidence to say, in all sincerity, “I don’t know where you are, Harrison, but I _will_ find you. I do have a starship and a moral compass, and I’m going to use both to hunt you to the ends of the Earth, and then I’m going to lock you in my brig and watch you squirm in it and get the satisfaction of knowing that your life is in my hands. And if Starfleet decides to execute you, I’m going to happily watch that, too.” Never mind that Starfleet doesn’t have capital punishment. There’s always an exception. Normally, Jim would be opposed to the idea, but right now...

This man killed Pike, and for that, he should burn. 

Jim isn’t expecting the cold laugh. Harrison drawls, sounding borderline amused, _“Interesting choice of words, Mr. Kirk. In fact, I’d be quite happy to sit in your brig and squirm for you. ...Provided, of course, you do the same for me. I’ll even go so far as to tell you exactly where you can catch me. And I’ll tell you what you need to do and where you need to go to uncover the real truth of your precious Starfleet. But, again, you will have to play along for all that...”_

He’s mad. It’s the only explanation for the attack, for why he’s doing this, for why he’s tormenting Jim and not making any sense. Why would a criminal give up their position and offer information? Jim’s still sure Harrison’s reasons couldn’t justify anything, but that doesn’t make him any less curious. Jim stares blankly at the wall while he thinks, tries to unravel all this. 

_“Wondering what you need to do for me to tell you everything...?”_ Jim scowls at the ceiling, as though that’s the thing that’s taunting him. That is something he’s wondering. He nods half to himself and gets a horrible feeling when Harrison answers—there really are cameras. _“I’m not asking much. Not anything out of character for you, I’m sure. It’s just that I’ve been locked into a misery you couldn’t even imagine for so long, and I could really use a pick-me-up—a bit of entertainment...”_

“Entertainment?” Jim’s teeth grind together. It’s such a general request, but Jim’s head automatically goes to the gutter, helped along by the tone of Harrison’s voice. It’s probably the most erotic one he’s ever heard, whether or not he’d like to admit it, deep and cool and always something of a purr. And he saw a picture of Harrison in the briefing before everything went to hell—saw _Harrison_ during hell—and of course the man’s attractive. But thinking that makes Jim sick, makes him feel like a traitor, and he instantly shakes his head to clear the image. Looks and sounds don’t matter. The man’s a monster, and Jim isn’t a puppet. 

_“No?”_ Harrison drawls, picking up on Jim’s expression. _“I’m not asking much, Captain. You’ll be given more courtesy than I was given by one of your dear admirals; this is more than a fair bargain, really. I’m so far away; I’m not even going to touch you.”_ Harrison’s voice drops to a raspy growl to add, _“When you find out what your Starfleet’s done to me, you’ll be glad to have given me even this tiny taste of revenge...”_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jim doesn’t. Harrison’s not making any sense again. He doesn’t know anything about Harrison aside from the attacks, but he knows that Starfleet doesn’t... doesn’t _violate_ people. He’s sure now that that’s what Harrison’s implying, and it’s not something Jim can or wants to believe. 

Still... the mere fact that Harrison would think of such a thing to say bothers Jim. Bothers him tremendously. He doesn’t know all the admirals in Starfleet, either. He believes they’re good. Starfleet’s supposed to be good. Harrison switches tactics. 

He purrs, _“You look hot. Take off your jacket, Captain..._ ” And his voice washes over Jim like a wave, more seductive than Jim could ever admit. It makes him shiver slightly, his fingers brushing and tightening around his zipper. He licks his lips again. He... he couldn’t strip on command for a criminal...

But... if it’s to catch that criminal... it’s sort of his duty, in a way. And the curiosity is roaring through him. Starfleet didn’t give him enough information, and what Harrison’s saying... it’s ridiculous, but not impossible. He’s obviously a powerful man. If he just wanted to damage Starfleet, he could’ve put explosives in Jim’s apartment instead of this. Maybe he has. But then why is he talking to Jim, dangling information in front of Jim? And then there’s that voice, so hot and perfect, and it helps Jim picture Harrison’s face, something he shouldn’t want...

Jim’s fingers are hesitating. He’s telling himself he won’t do this. What’s Harrison wearing? Maybe his own jacket’s off, that long, dark coat from the pictures and the jumpship lying pooled on the floor. His black shirt stretched so perfectly over all his muscles... 

Fuck, Jim’s a dog. He’s going to hell. No wonder Bones is always on his back. He can’t help it. He wants to hate indiscriminately, but presented with the chance of good in someone, he just _can’t._ And then there’s the fact that it’s turning out he’s the slut Bones always calls him, and Harrison soothes so gently, _“Your jacket, Captain. Mine’s already on the floor... won’t you join me?”_

_Yes_. No. He shouldn’t. It’s just a jacket. He’s biting his bottom lip, and his fingers are moving so slowly down, taking his zipper with them, peeling his jacket slowly apart. He’s still a few centimeters from the bottom when Harrison sighs in such a lovely way, _“I wish I was there to brush it from your shoulders, but alas, that will have to wait—perhaps until I’m in your brig... and I will be your prisoner, Captain, if only you’re a good boy in the meantime...”_

Jim can do that. He can behave for once. He wants Harrison in his brig more than he can express, wants that cool exterior locked behind glass below his very eyes. He pulls the jacket from his arms, letting it fall to the floor. His black Starfleet shirt beneath is suddenly too thick, too warm on him. He realizes that his eyelids are drooping and forces them back up, trying not to give in. His cheeks are warm. Maybe Harrison has his temperature controls, too.

 _“You have such a good body, Captain,”_ Harrison says, sounding genuine and approving. Jim wishes that didn’t make him feel as good as it does. _“It’s a wonder Admiral Marcus chose to play with me when he had you at his disposal...”_

“Admiral Marcus?” Jim didn’t even mean to say it out loud. The thought of Admiral Marcus touching Jim makes him instantly sick, but the thought of him touching Harrison is equally strange. 

_“I told you you’d get information out of this,”_ Harrison informs him simply. _“Give you a bit of my motives. It’s much more than just what you’re thinking, I’m afraid. ...But don’t worry...”_ His voice lowers into another sensual growl, _“I wouldn’t treat you like that... a prize like you would need to be handled right...”_

Jim mumbles too shakily, “I don’t want to be handled at all.” It sounds like a lie, even to him. He meant to mean it. Harrison makes a sighing noise. 

_“Then you shouldn’t be so very irresistible. Now... do you really need your shirt?”_ There’s a general rustling sound through whatever comm Harrison’s using. _“I’m taking off mine so you don’t feel lonely. I’m sure you’ll strip me down when you catch me, anyway—that seems to be the way of Starfleet. It’s only fair that I see you now, Captain. Don’t you want to take your shirt off for me?”_

Jim _does_. He really does. He can never, ever tell Bones about this. He feels ashamed with himself. His head’s a mess right now, a mash of conflicting emotions. The sadness from earlier is still eating him up, the anger’s ebbing away, confusion’s everywhere and now he feels pity, and he feels... feels horny... Harrison’s mere _voice_ is getting him horny, and he doesn’t want his shirt on anymore; his hands are already dancing along the hem...

He seizes it suddenly, before he can change his mind. He practically rips the fabric over his head, tossing it aside and breathing heavier with the rush of his decision: his commitment to this. He’s doing what he has to do to catch a criminal. His duty.

Or maybe he’s just being a slut, which he has a right to be, too, even if it’s humiliating and horrible. But who does it really hurt if he strips in his own apartment? Harrison’s stripping too, or at least, Jim thinks as much. He wants to believe it. He pictures Harrison shirtless, maybe in the shower, water streaming down his inevitable six-pack, trickling around his nipples, or lying in Jim’s bed, arched and ready. Jim’s waiting for more instructions. 

He knows where this is going. He could take his own pants off. But he _wants_ Harrison to tell him too, and he wants more information. He waits, and he’s rewarded with a gentle, _“Are your pants getting tight, Captain? They should be, with me feeding you the image of your power: me caught in your web. Doesn’t the thought of throwing me in your little cell get you all hot and bothered? Perhaps we’ll add more to that, if it helps. Perhaps you’ll do more than that. You might strip me down like your admiral did, might make me turn around, might watch me shower and have me touch myself like I’m going to make you do... wouldn’t that be lovely, Captain? Having the Federation’s star criminal at your fingertips, crushed beneath your boot? Starfleet-issued pants simply aren’t enough to house the kind of power a man like you holds...”_

 _Fuck_ , he’s good. Jim is getting hard, so hard, half from the sheer thought of Harrison and half from the thoughts being forced into his head. He could shower Harrison off in the brig—say it’s decontamination, or something. He wouldn’t, but he could. He’d be proving Harrison right: proving Starfleet not so very _good_ after all. But he can still fantasize about it. 

He can hear a zipper that isn’t his. His chest’s a little cold in the open air, warming up more and more. Jim’s tongue is running along the inside of his mouth, wanting someone else to touch. He mumbles, “You’re taking your pants off...?”

 _“At the sight of you,”_ Harrison promises. _“I don’t need fantasies of my power; I’ve got your pretty body to look at. It makes it very difficult for me to keep myself contained.”_ Jim’s too warm. Harrison’s a handsome man. To be praised by him means something. Picturing him without any pants.... What kind of underwear does he wear? Maybe none. Fuck, Jim hopes none. He wishes there were two-way cameras on: a screen for him to look at. His hands are fisted at his sides. He wants to touch himself. 

He waits for Harrison to tell him again, _“Take your pants off, Captain.” Captain_. The way he says the title makes it sound like a bedroom petname. Jim belatedly realizes that he isn’t even a captain anymore. Or is he? He’d take over Pike’s. Shit, _Pike_. He shouldn’t have thought of that...

But then, he needs this information to avenge Pike. To do right by the Federation. He’s going to hell and grasping at straws. His head isn’t even close to functioning properly. His hands are on his pants of their own accord, shuffling down the grey fabric, letting it pool on the floor next to his jacket. He steps out of them, letting his socks go on the way, until he’s standing in just his black boxers, clinging to his bulging crotch. He’s rewarded with a sound of approval. He sits down on the corner of his bed—it feels like the right thing to do.

_“Lie down.”_

Jim lies down on his back, shuffling up the mattress until his head’s in the pillows, the blanket uneven beneath him; he never makes his bed. He’s staring up at the ceiling but not really focusing. He’s bristling with anticipation. Harrison purrs, _“Now, Captain, I want you to listen very carefully. You’re almost there. You’ve been a very, very good boy so far, and I wouldn’t want you to waste all of that by botching the end. Are you listening...?”_

Jim nods his head. That’s a good point. He’s come this far. He can’t go back. His arms are rigid at his sides, resisting the urge to touch himself before he’s told. ...He’s sure he’ll be told...

 _“First, I want you to take off what little clothes you have left and show me that gorgeous body of yours. Then I want you to roll onto your stomach and stick your ass up—I want to see you run your hands along it and spread your cheeks for me. Then... lastly... you’ll roll back over, and you may touch yourself, thinking of me and only me, until you come in your hand like the slut you are.”_ His tone is a deep, feral growl by the end of it, making Jim’s skin burn at the ends. 

Jim doesn’t waste time. He arches off the bed to better reach his boxers, pushing them down with too little care, scrunching them down his thighs and kicking them off, letting them fly across the room. As soon as it’s free, Jim’s cock bounces into the air, shamefully hard and nearly dripping with precum. Jim has to take a minute just to appreciate his new freedom, and he grits his teeth to stifle his moan. He wants to hump the air. 

Instead, he rolls onto his stomach. He’s never been good at following rules, but the bedroom is one place he’ll listen if he’s promised a happy end. He sticks his ass as high into the air as it can go, just like he was told, arching his back and spreading his legs a little. He wonders vaguely what angle, or angles, Harrison has. Hopefully his ass looks good from all angles. Jim turns his face to the side in the pillow as his shoulders press into the mattress, hands sliding down his sides. He reaches his hips and trails his hands over his cheeks, squeezing slightly before kneading them, turning them nice and pink. He slaps one cheek just because he can’t resist. There’s a sharp intake of breath through the comm, and Jim, always so precocious, can’t help but groan, “You like that?”

Another chuckle. It slips into a low, _“You have no idea how much.”_ As Jim runs one finger down his cleft, Harrison sighs, _“I want you to know that I’m touching myself to the sight of you, Captain James Kirk. ...And I’m having quite a bit of fun thinking of all the things I’d like to do to that ass...”_

“You’ll have to give yourself up to get a chance,” Jim quips, surprisingly himself at his own cunning. He’s putting nails on the coffin, giving Harrison more incentive to follow through on his word. And Jim’s also starting to hope he gets a chance, too. What’s Harrison’s ass like? Probably ridiculously taut and tight, dimpled from working out. Jim moans in spite of himself and grabs his ass cheeks, pulling them apart as wide as he can and rutting higher into the air. He wants Harrison to see his hole, wants Harrison to want him. 

But he can’t take it for long, and he lets go abruptly, rolling back over in a flash, stretching out in the blankets. His eyes flutter closed and he moans, “Tell me to touch myself again.” He just needs to hear _more._

_“Touch yourself,”_ Harrison moans back, and it almost sounds like he’s mid-orgasm, those deep tones quivering and breaking with obvious pleasure. He sucks it back into control and growls fiercely, _“Touch yourself for me, Captain.”_ Jim wouldn’t think of disobeying. 

The second his hand’s wrapped around his cock, he’s groaning happily. Even dry, it feels good, and Jim hurriedly spits in his other palm, reaching down to swap out and wetting the second hand. It’s not enough, but he can’t care. He’s so, so hard. He pumps his right hand up and down his engorged shaft and uses his left hand to play with his balls, rolling them around and tugging gently, and he can hear Harrison mewling contentedly. Jim’s always one to put on a show. He keeps his eyes closed so he can picture the man that’s doing this to him, picture those perfect bow lips and those strong cheekbones and those iridescent eyes...

He just started, and he’s so close. His hips are bucking off the bed into his palm, and he lets his thumb play with his slit each time it gets high enough, pressing in and rubbing, and then he’s back to stroking, pumping himself hard. His pace is so relentless that his hips can barely keep up. If Jim thought he could last long enough, he’d finger himself too. But it’s all he can do not to explode as is. He pulls out all the stops, all his best tricks, twisting and squeezing and tugging, and he can feel the warmth pooling in his stomach, but for some reason, he doesn’t want to come yet, won’t come, not until he’s told. He’s panting and straining, head tossed back, blond hair mussed in the pillows. His legs are twisting in the sheets. His mouth is stuck open, gasping for air and letting loose all his breathy moans. 

His teeth dig into his bottom lip, then his tongue, and he makes a sharp keening noise, gasping, “Please...”

Harrison says only: _“Come.”_

Jim _bursts_. He spills a bigger load than he ever has, and it shoots right up his chest and hits his chin, dribbling over his fingers and pooling on his stomach, hot jets of white that string along his skin. Jim keeps pumping his cock and massaging his balls, and he hardly even registers that he’s screaming, face scrunched up and body arched off the bed in the throws of his orgasm. There’s a loud roar on the other side: Harrison’s. Harrison’s _coming_. For him, because of him. That makes Jim so fucking insanely horny that he can barely handle it; he’s already seeing stars. He wants to memorize the exact sound of Harrison’s voice at this moment, just like this, so he can play it back in his head any time he ever touches himself. He’s never heard anything sexier in his whole life. It seems to take forever for his cum to stop pouring out, but it still ends too soon. 

And then Jim’s slumping, falling back into the bed, spent and satiated and coming slowly, very slowly, back to himself. 

The shame comes with it, regret mingling into his perfect afterglow. His mind’s too blown to properly process it, but he knows... that wasn’t _right_.

He did his job. He doesn’t have the strength to do anything but lie there. He lets his eyes squint open, and he stares blearily up at the ceiling, hardly seeing it. His breath takes a long time to go back down to normal. His skin is tingling, pleasant and lukewarm. He waits, praying for something to happen. 

For this not to have been for nothing. For him not to have been stupid enough to play marionette for some twisted mastermind. 

Finally, Harrison says, voice crisp and back to normal, _“You’ll find your answers at two three, one seven, four six, one one.”_ A pause, in which Jim hurriedly memorizes the numbers: coordinates. He repeats them over and over in his mind, still hoping for more. He’s not sure what exactly he wants, but it’s something beyond their deal. He simply gets their deal. _“...And you can find me on Kronos.”_

Jim’s eyes are widening. That can’t be true. There’s a general rush of clicks throughout the room—the lights flicker to one hundred percent, his door unlocks, the blinds unlock, control’s relinquished. Jim sits up on his elbows, overwhelmed but with another rush of adrenaline. He has his apartment back. He has... a path to answers. 

But the comm didn’t turn off. Jim waits for that. 

Before it comes, Harrison purrs, _“When you find me, call me Khan.”_

The last click; the comm’s dead. 

Khan.

Jim’s going to catch him, no matter what.


End file.
